True endurance in Allah; is born when the determination to reach your goal; walks hand in hand with surrender to Allah's timing. It is like the journey of a long-distance runner, you may bend beneath the heavy winds, but never lose sight of the finish line.
_____
'Nur Afiya'
...NINE YEARS AGO
Eighteen-year-old Jamal walked a few paces behind Almeida and Jamila, the sisters who had become family since his mother's passing. Their laughter drifted back to him, light and unburdened, while the steady tap of his Qur'an bag against his hip marked the time. A rhythm that usually spoke of order and duty. Yet, tonight, it failed to calm him.
The Shaykh's words from madrasa still lingered in his chest, curling through his mind like smoke long after the gathering had dispersed. "When truth dies among earthlings, corruption spreads. And to those who allow it? Allah's verdict is coming."
He could still feel the weight in the old man's voice: stern, prophetic, heavy with a purity that refused to let a young man rest easy.
One by one, the town's aging street lamps flickered on, stretching their shadows long across Nur Afiya's narrow streets. It should have been an ordinary evening, no different from the others. Yet the air itself felt heavier, as if fate had quietly leaned in closer.
The streets beyond the madrasa were folding into dusk. Night-blooming jasmine draped the air with its soft fragrance, and the curl of suya smoke drifted lazily from distant vendors. Yet, beneath the warmth of the evening, a sharper sense ran along Jamal's skin; a metallic prickle at the back of his neck.
'A warning older than caution, a subtle pulse that whispered what the eyes; had yet to see.'
Maghrib(evening prayer) had long passed. The street now lay hushed, as if the whole town were holding its breath. Only the sisters' laughter broke the silence: light, bubbling. Their conversation always just out of Jamal's hearing. They walked beneath the flickering streetlamps, steady and carefree. Girls he trusted. Girls he would have defended without hesitation.
He didn't know it then. That this simple walk; would be his last night in Nur Afiya as a boy.
Up ahead, Jamila scoffed, swiping dust from her abaya. "Next time we close this late, I'm asking Allah(SWT) for wings home. At least the sky won't keep me waiting like you two snails."
Jamal's lips curved faintly. "Really? A guinea fowl wishes for the eagle's feathers. So as the eagle hungers for the peregrine's speed. And the peregrine still envies the rocket's journey to space. Such is the nature of 'human condition'. That's why; contentment remains the truest path to peace. At least thank Allah for your legs."
"Jamal and his sermons," Almeida murmured, turning toward the main road. "Always on cue."
He smiled, unbothered. "And what's the rush?" He pressed on, "..when home awaits all the same. Instead of asking for wings, why not ask Allah for more patience with His timing in your life? Tonight, arguably, we're walking home carrying enough knowledge to shape our lives; if only we let it."
Jamila halted, lips pursed as she spun toward him.
"Knowledge?" she countered. "Spare me that trash talk, Jamal. The Shaykh could've just booked us a bed at the mosque. Honestly, we barely survived his three hours of so-called 'Time-Wasting School'." She lifted two fingers in mocking quotation marks. "And then he stretched it to five. Who survives that?"
Jamal shook his head. "Time-Wasting School, really?" His lips curved like a crescent moon. 'You always have a name for everything." The smile lingered, then softened into quiet thought. "And who survives it?" he echoed, this time with a teasing edge. "We all do. And, you just did today. Believe me or not, Jamila," He pressed on. "It's not a waste of time. You should try to put into practice; what you've heard today, it'll benefit you a lot, believe me."
His eyes shifted to Almeida, intent and earnest. "You're the only one who can help her understand. These reminders are essential, especially for women growing up here in Nur Afiya. I trust you because you're wiser than the others. Speak to her heart before she strays too far to find her way back."
Almeida only gave a sheepish smile and a small shrug, her gaze slipping away from his.
The wind stirred again, rattling a loose tin roof somewhere nearby. Dust whispered like secrets across the darkened road.
Jamila exhaled loudly and slowed her pace, turning to face Jamal with a look of weary defiance. "Imam Jamal," she mocked, her tone edged with sarcasm. "I hail you. Talking like you're the Shaykh's echo. Grow up chief. The world is sprinting, but you and your Shaykh are still walking barefoot in circle."
Jamal's gaze deepened, his voice dropping to a low, steady urgency. "If the world is sprinting towards the direction you claim, then maybe it's sprinting toward its own downfall." He paused, then pressed on. "That class… it's what we all need, young, old.. all of us. To stay anchored in truth." He paused, letting the words settle before continuing. "To live in obedience on this earth, with rememberace the Last Day always before our eyes, when we'll stand and give account to Allah." He increased his steps as he drew closer to her, his words clear, unshaken. "That's the only direction that counts. What else could?"
He raised his head towards her direction, studying her expression.
"Don't tell me you were irritated the whole time at Madrasa?"
Jamila scoffed lightly. "Nooo... I can never be irritated at the words of Allah." Her tone softened, almost defensive. "But did we really need to sit for hours listening to words most of the audience won't act on? Not everyone is ready to change, Jamal." She exhaled sharply, her impatience resurfacing. "And me? Tonight was supposed to be my night. I've waited months for this movie; I just got it today. And instead of being at home watching it, I sat there losing precious time." She quickened her pace, like someone trying to catch a bus she's missed by minutes.
Jamal's voice rose in pursuit, earnest and unwavering. "Jamila, listen. Truth doesn't waste time. A message only matters when it's lived. Know that; whether you liked the lecture or not, the Shaykh has done his part, and Allah will reward him. As for us, how we respond will determine ours. Elders usually say: you can lead a horse to water, but you can't force it to drink."
Almeida's soft laugh cut through the weight of his words. Gentle, almost harmless. The kind of laugh that made her seem incapable of malice. The sound reverted Jamal's eyes back to her.
"Look, Jamal," she said softly, "she's sixteen. Allah gave everyone free will. By now, she already knows right from wrong. At some point, you have to accept there's only so much you can tell her. At sixteen, you're already a master of your decisions."
Jamal exhaled, adjusting the Qur'an bag on his shoulder. "I hear you. But every dawn is a new chance to grow. Sixteen doesn't last forever, and you have to make wise, God-fearing choices before time runs out." He raised his hand, pressing thumb to ring finger; the old sign of truth, carried with calm conviction. "In a world pulling young hearts away from their divine purpose so early in life, fear of Allah must be the anchor." He paused. "Remember, Jezebel was once sixteen, and so was Hadassah- Esther. Both became queens, yet look where their paths led."
His lips curved faintly, though his tone stayed solemn. "A word should be enough for the wise. My prayer is that none of us make choices that shatter our spirits before we even realize what's at stake. May Allah continue to guide us all." He concluded.
"Insha'Allah," Almeida murmured under her breath. 'By the grace of Allah.'
Across the street, beneath the flickering glow of a fluorescent light, three boys kicked a worn ball down the dusty lane. Nearby, an elderly woman fanned glowing embers beneath blackened roasting maize. The evening air still hummed with familiar sounds and scents, yet beneath it all lingered a deeper, almost sacred, quiet.
Jamila reached the compound gate and pushed it open with both hands, slipping inside without looking back. Almeida followed, holding the gate wide open before glancing over her shoulder at Jamal.
Jamal stood at the roadside, brushing dust from his trousers with a folded handkerchief.
"You're coming in, right?" she asked.
Jamal paused, then scratched his head.
The hesitation wasn't shyness; it was instinct, learned at a young age. Home hadn't been a sanctuary since his mother's death two years ago, a loss as sudden as it was brutal. His father had vanished long before Jamal learned to speak. His sister, too, was gone; married off to the North, absorbed into another family's story. And Fawas, the only brother he'd chosen in his heart, lived in a house too volatile for frequent visits.
Aside from his uncle's house where he usually spent the night, this was what remained: a house full of women's voices and warmth. They had become his family in all but name. Bound not by blood, but by a kindness so steady it put many true families to shame. Not his home, yet not a place that turned him away either. That was why he rarely refused when they called.
"You're coming in," Almeida said again, her voice leaving no room for refusal. "My mom made tuwo before she left. Unless you've already eaten?"
A slow smile touched Jamal's lips and he blinked twice, as though gathering himself back into the moment.
"I haven't eaten. Wallahi, you had me at tuwo. How did you predict I must be hungry?"
She grinned, a flash of mischief in her eyes, then turned toward the inner compound. He followed, and behind them, the iron gate swung shut with a heavy, final clang.
_________.
Inside, the house breathed warmth. The rich, sweet scent of freshly fried puff-puff lingered in the air, mingling with the delicate fragrance of night-blooming jasmine drifting through the open window. Soft golden light from the chandelier spilled across crisp linen and warm surfaces.
Mariyah, Almeida's elder sister, sat cross-legged on a woven rug, picking at a napkin full of puff-puffs while low-tuned hip-hop hummed in the background.
She was already exchanging words with Jamila when they entered. Glancing up at them, she exclaimed, "Wow! Finally! I thought the Shaykh took you all to relive the Battle of Badr." She turned to Jamila, feigning a frown. "You should've just left that movie at home instead of taking it to Madrasa. All this attitude just because you bought it with your own money. Honestly... you won't believe i nearly ate the house waiting."
"Sands are plenty outside.. why render us homeless?" Almeida shot back as she slipped toward her room. "Your peers are out there winning souls, and you sit here whining over a movie."
"Okay, Prophet Samuel," Mariyah retorted, her voice muffled by puff-puff. "I hope you've got your oil ready?" She stuffed another piece into her already full cheek, then nodded solemnly. "But, come to think of it, I could've won plenty of them, you know... Maybe I'll start tomorrow. I'll be like: 'O people of Nur Afiya! Alla..'"
Her sermon collapsed into a sudden, choking cough. She slapped her chest, eyes wide, words breaking into panic. "Water! Water! Jamila... help!"
Jamila shook her head and handed her a glass of water, a faint smile touching her lips. "If you choke yourself to death over puff-puff, just know we'll still share thousands of them at your funeral."
Mariyah couldn't reply; she just gulped down the water, trying to calm her racing heart.
Jamal lingered near the doorway, quietly taking in their familiar back-and-forth. After a moment, he slid off his sandals and settled into his usual corner of the couch. A spot that felt familiar, quiet, almost like a refuge.
Minutes later,
Almeida returned carrying a tray laden with puff-puff and cups of steaming tea.
But something else had changed.
Gone was the loose abaya from madrasa. She now wore a grey sleeveless top and simple black shorts. Her scarf was gone, her hair tied up loosely with a few stray strands framing her face.
Jamal blinked; not because he hadn't seen girls dress like that, but because this was Almeida, and the change felt subtle, yet, deliberate. Still, it was her home. Who was he to question how she chose to dress within it?
She handed him a mug, her finger lingering longer than necessary as her thumb grazed his knuckle.
He felt a shift.
Not just the touch; but a shift inside.
A fight-or-flight kind of tug.
"Jazakillah," he murmured, eyes fixed on the tray.
Almeida smiled faintly and settled beside him, picking up her own mug.
"That's your eighth puff-puff since we came in, Mariyah," Jamila teased as she slid a cassette into the DVD player. "I wonder how many you've swallowed before we got back."
Mariyah mumbled something, her mouth still full. Cheeks round and guilty.
The screen flickered to life. Jazz tune spilled from the speakers, soon followed by intimate scenes; lips meeting lips, roaming hands, breathless sounds filling the room.
Five minutes into the movie, Jamal's stomach tightened. This wasn't their usual lighthearted drama. The kind they'd laugh about, debate, or even feel sympathy for the characters. This felt raw. Uncomfortably raw. The silence in the room grew heavier now, more than the sounds coming from the television.
"You're quiet," Almeida whispered, leaning closer until her thigh brushed against his. "Not enjoying the movie? Or the cat got your tongue?"
Jamal adjusted a little, "Absolutely not enjoying the movie," He confirmed. "I didn't expect Jamila to pick a movie like this," he replied quietly. "This kind of temptation is harder to withhold; than the role of leadership. And i usually stay quiet when temptation speaks."
"But we grow, right?" Almeida teased softly. "Isn't that what you told me on our way from madrasa? If temptation has stolen your voice, maybe I could give you a beautiful one to reply with."
She leaned in once more, and Jamal shifted further toward the edge of the couch, his jaw visibly tightening.
"Behave yourself, Almeida," he rebuked. "You're already taking this too far. When I said we grow; is this what you thought I meant?" He paused, fixing her with a gaze that seemed to cut straight through her soul. "You know I wouldn't be here this late if it weren't for hunger strong enough to bring a man to his knees." His tone was flat, unyielding.
"Relax, Jamal." Almeida replied smoothly. "Have I ever lied to you? I'll bring the tuwo after the movie,"
"Hooking me with food...?" He quipped.
"And probably romance," Mariyah chimed in, flashing a sly smile. "Deadly combo."
Jamal leaned back into the couch, his voice low but firm. "Just tell me already; if you have another motive hidden in this. But know that: Whatever your plot is, it doesn't touch me. Just remember, Allah dislikes deceit."
Almeida's voice carried a playful challenge, soft but sharp at the edges.
"Deceit..? When I'm no Shaytan." She turned to face him. "You're the one moving away, perhaps; you're the one with wild thoughts. Or, are you afraid I'd bite?"
"You probably would; if chanced," Jamal shot back, his voice tense. He half-closed his eyes. "The way you're dressed tells me you're capable of more than just biting." He gestured sharply toward the screen. "And this movie... Why not just bring the food now?"
She didn't answer.
From the opposite couch, Jamila snickered. "Jamal's just scared of women, that's all. He always does that... turtling thing, when things get heated."
"What's 'turtling thing'?" Jamal retorted, raising an eyebrow.
"One little flirt," Jamila grinned, "and you retreat right back into your shell."
"Little flirt..." Jamal grumbled under his breath, the words tight with fraying patience. Still;
these were girls he trusted. Like blood sisters.
On screen, the scene had softened. Though still not appropriate, but it was visibly less brazen. Jamal forced himself to relax, drawing a slow breath. He trusted them. After all, it was just a movie.
Almeida leaned in once more, her breath warm against his ear.
"I don't know what's happening to me, Jamal," she whispered. "Why... why I just can't get over you. I..."
Jamal froze, every muscle tightening. He cut her off before the words could fall.
"This is going beyond our usual play.. and you know it," he said, voice sharp, his gaze locked steady on hers. "You understand exactly what you're doing."
Her lips curved into a faint, defiant smile.
"And what's that?"
Jamal let out a quiet, ironic laugh, his expression edged with disbelief.
"Still asking me?" He gave a knowing smile that carried more warning than humor. "You're the one striking matches in a room soaked with gasoline. You know fully well; one could get scarred when the fire breaks out."
Her smile flickered, but she pressed on, her voice carrying a daring edge.
"So... what if I'm not afraid of burning?"
"Then that's your cup of hot tea," he shot back, sarcasm threading through his tone. But his next words dropped heavy, unshaken. "Understand this: whatever your plot is, it cannot happen. I know exactly what this is. It's a test from Allah, and I won't fail it. Even Prophet Yusuf faced such trials... and he guarded his dignity."
Almeida's eyes darkened, her voice dropping low.
"And what did dignity get him? A prison cell."
"No," Jamal's voice rang out, clear and resolute. "Allah raised him above those who wronged him. He was honored while they were shamed. And think of Samson; where did surrendering to desire lead him?" He let the weight of silence hang for a beat before finishing. "Remember this, Almeida: try have some dignity. It is what guards you from breaking divine law. And that is where true change, the kind that honors your humanity; begins."
Almeida drew back slightly, studying his face, her playful edge dimming.
"So you're basically saying I have no dignity?" she asked coolly, turning toward the television. "Maybe next time, you'll see things differently."
""I never said that," Jamal replied, his voice soft yet steady, edged with a newfound resolve. "Please, don't misquote me. But there won't be a next time. I've made a promise to Allah; no romance until I'm ready to honor it with marriage and family."
He held her gaze, unwavering. "I won't sleep with a woman I haven't respected through the sacred bond of marriage, and never without the blessing of her family. Intimacy is a trust from Allah. It's meant to be a foundation for righteous offspring, not an act of defiance. Not this you're pushing for. That is what the Al-qur'an said. That is how it must be. I hope you understand."
Almeida didn't answer. She just stared at the screen, her earlier boldness replaced by a sober silence.
Mariyah licked sugar from her fingers, a smirk playing on her lips. "Jamal really thinks he's living in the time of Prophet Ibrahim. Maybe he needs a wake-up call from this century."
Jamal turned to her, his expression calm but unyielding. "What you think I need is your opinion, not my reality. Our most basic need on this earth should be; striving to make Jannah(heaven). Believe me or not, but anything that pulls us away from that path of making heaven... it isn't good for any of us."
Mariyah gave a sharp scoff. "Imam Jamal. And who doesn't want to make Jannah?" she quipped.
Jamal stayed silent.
The silence that followed was heavy, almost tangible, like the brush of an unseen angel passing through the room. The air grew thick, charged, as if even the walls held their breath. The familiar banter and laughter had no place tonight. Something in the atmosphere had shifted, unsettling and strange.
Finally, Jamal broke the stillness, his voice gentle yet layered with conviction. "It's not that you're a bad person, Almeida; not at all. I understand what you're feeling, but I don't see you that way. Not you, not Jamila, not Mariyah. You're all beautiful, yes. Intelligent, without a doubt. But to me, you're just like sisters. And protecting our honor and sacredness now, while we're young, that's what draws Allah's mercy into our life early. Know this and know peace. Don't wait until it's too late to understand that."
With that, he turned away from the screen and placed his head on the couch, his thoughts simmering beneath the surface.
He didn't know, he couldn't have known;
that as the night in Nur Afiya deepened into amber stillness, the hours ahead would unravel all he thought he understood about trust and friendship.
________.